Thanks for the Memories
by The Shinigumi
Summary: Co-written with Gloria B.. Prequel to Goodnight Moon and Tear You Apart, focusing on the Wammy's House children and how they came to be the screwed up wonders we love or hate.
1. New Disease

Disclaimer: We do not own Death Note, nor any of the characters from it. We do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Rating: PG-13

Comments (by Duomi): Thanks for the Memories is an idea that was bouncing around in my head for a while-- a prequel to Goodnight Moon and Tear You Apart focusing on the Wammy's House boys and what makes them tick. When I mentioned it to Gloria, she took to it and was so full of energy and inspiration that it actually got the fic into action. So really, this is all thanks to her! Some of you will like it, some of you will still hate Mello and Near and want us to write other things, but this is fun, so deal with it. (I'm still working on Tear You Apart! This is just distracting me for the moment while I work out a kink in one of the upcoming chapters.) I'll be writing Near's chapters when they pop up, and she's doing Mello's.

Once again, **this chapter is by the wonderful Gloria B.!** Her author's note is attached at the bottom.

Spoiler warning: Mello, Near and possibly Matt's real names, probably some information on B later. We try to keep our facts canon if we can, but this prequel is going to be mostly creative license. La eMe is a real LA-based gang, and we don't own _them_, either.

**New Disease**

"...Fuck morality and everything I know...

...If I didn't hate this then I couldn't cope...

...Impersonate myself for what I used to be...

...Denial is all that's left now..."

~"New Disease" by Spineshank

_January 5, 1994 _

_***_

_Have you ever seen something bizarre in the corner of your eye, only to double back and realize it's something perfectly mundane and normal? And then you spend the rest of the day making up scenarios where that bizarre thing you thought you saw could actually have been there? Well, I'm convinced that there's some equivalence to my life in there somewhere. Some strange metaphor that mirrors the bizarre disguised by the mundane that one can only perceive if looking sideways at it. _

_A joke at my expense. _

~*~

FBI Agent Douglas Dane frowned through the glass of the observation room at the scowling five year old. He was filthy; all knees and elbows and wild blond hair that looked as if he cut it himself.

"After the bust, we sent him to Orangewood," the officer standing beside him explained. "But he escaped. When we found him again, he was on the corner of Santa Monica and Broadway stealing Hershey bars."

Dane looked askance at him before gazing back at the child. "I read his file," he said in a clipped voice.

M, the child called himself. Probably a nickname given to him by members of La eMe--who apparently knew even less of what to do with him than they did Why he was with Rod Ross and the other sub-runners of the Mexican Mafia was still technically a mystery.

After the boy's escape from the orphanage and recapture, the child was sent to LA General. Apparently, the kid didn't much like his quarters in the Psychiatric Ward either because he went missing again. After the local precinct picked him up a third time, Dane had stepped in, claiming that the child was a source of information for their case against La eMe, and therefore under the FBI's jurisdiction.

However, that was just a cover. Dane wanted to see the child himself. He had interrogated Rod Ross and the boy had come up during their…conversation. Certain aspects of this little boy, this M, might be of interest to a…past acquaintance of his.

"I'll say it one more time," Dane had snapped, leaning forward over the table, Ross' file open between them. "Topo. What can you tell me about him?"

"And I say again," the _cholo _Family member had replied under his withering black glare. "I'll not say nothing."

"Fine." Dane had stood abruptly, but then paused as a thought crossed his mind.

"Your mascot is already bending under our interrogations. Eventually, the child will tell us everything. He's claiming you kidnapped him."

Rod had surprised him by laughing. "Mihael? Oh, no. I can guarantee you no one would want to take that_ poquito niño_."

"Mihael? That's his name? Who is he?"

Laughter. "No one knows _gringo_. He showed up on my doorstep one day, bartering for candy."

"Bartering?"

"Had information for the Family. Don't know how he got it—don't want to know. _Loco niño. _Don't try to keep him behind bars _gringo. _He don't do too good locked up."

"Oh? What would he do?"

To that, he had only grinned. "He'll leave _gringo_."

And he had, twice.

The child was moving. His bright green eyes fixed on the glass separating them, and even though Dane knew Mihael couldn't see him, he could swear the kid was staring straight at him. Slowly, the wild boy moved closer, like an animal closing in on his prey, until his grimy face was pressed up on the glass. He hissed through his teeth and Dane flinched back.

The officer beside him leaned forward and pressed the intercom. "Step away from the glass," he said into the microphone.

The boy didn't need to be told twice. He flashed his audience a quick smile before sauntering back to his seat. Dane chewed on his bottom lip. That smile wasn't one of a wild young boy; it was the grin of a clever mind that knew exactly what it was doing.

"I have to make a call," Dane said. "I'll be right back."

Dane knew the rules. He drove a full mile away from the precinct and pulled up to a pay phone. After inserting the coins, he dialed: 010-5928-1472-18.

The line did not ring. It beeped once, and then a low hum followed. After a few minutes, Dane heard a rapid succession of clicking noises before a voice—young and female—said: "Enter code."

Dane said the words into the mouth piece, his voice low and his back turned to face the traffic behind him. "D1225."

"Processing."

And then another voice came on the line—this one elderly and kind.

"Deliverance," the old man greeted benevolently. "How have you been?"

"Well, Watari, thank you," Dane responded. "And give my thanks to L for his aid on La eMe."

There was another voice, this one muffled and distant. Dane could not make out the words, but he could discern the monotone, almost disdainful sound of the teenage genius that was currently climbing the ladder of the most brilliant detective minds in the world under the generous care of his old mentor.

The old man chuckled at whatever the other voice had said before turning his attention back to Dane. "D. You have a gift for me?"

"I do—"

"The boy." This was not said by the older voice.

"L?"

"Yes. This is L."

Dane was not surprised, really, that L knew of the child. He had put many hours into this case and probably knew more about La eMe than even he did. What did surprise Dane was that L had taken enough of an interest in Mihael to take over Watari's private call.

"You've relocated him?"

"Yes," Dane responded. "I'm afraid he'll escape again, though. I'm not sure how he does it, but the little brat won't stay put."

There was silence, and then the muffled noise of L speaking to Watari. The old man resumed the call. "I will accept your gift," Watari said and paused. Then: "L says to check his hair."

The call ended abruptly, and Dane stared dumbly at the receiver as the dial tone hummed loudly from it. Slowly, Dane hung up the phone and returned to his car.

Soon, an escort would be in Los Angeles to transfer the child and he would be off his hands.

~*~

_Why am I writing this stupid journal? _

_Why? _

_Why? Why? Why? _

_Rod hated that word with a singular passion that I found equally fascinating to provoke. I would torment him with it._

"_I've got to go out," he'd say. _

"_Why?" _

"_Because Jose says our shipment's been stalled." _

"_Why?" _

"_I don't know. That's why I have to go talk to him." _

"_Why?" _

"_Because I need details." _

"_Why?" _

"_Because without them, I can't properly—"_

"_Why?" _

"_Because, dammit! _A dios mío_! I thought you were smart…" _

_Anyway, so why? _

_Well, because they told me to would be the easiest answer. However, the real answer is much more complicated. _

~*~

Mihael woke with a start and immediately clutched at his pounding head. He blinked the last bits of sleep from his eyes and rubbed his face with one hand. It took only a moment to register that he was in pajamas he didn't recognize, and lying in bed with rocket ship-print sheets. Mihael grunted in disgust and pushed the sheets away.

Quickly, he got out of the bed and took in his bearings. He was in a simple bedroom with a large window, a computer, a dresser, and a closet. It was snowing outside. Mihael rushed to the window, but growled when he saw it was barred shut. He turned in a circle and spotted some clothes on a chair by the dresser. He crossed the room, discarding his pajama pants and top as he went, and pulled on the black, over-sized shirt and loose-fitting black trousers. Then he sat down at the computer desk and proceeded to hack files—but they were all empty save for a few complimentary programs.

Mihael slumped in the chair and reached for his rosary, but it was missing from its usual perch around his neck. He jumped up; spinning around as his wide green eyes frantically searched the room. It was there, on the nightstand. He rushed over and grabbed it, sighing in relief as he slipped it back over his head, the heavy cross resting against the jut of his belly. Reaching with small fingers into his hair, he headed for the door. He nearly screamed in frustration when he couldn't find any of the small knives or picks he kept in his wild, yellow hair. Whoever brought him here must have found them.

He grabbed the doorknob and flung all his weight into the door. He crashed into the hall, smacking his head against the marble floor as he realized the door had never been locked.

Mihael clutched at his head for a second time, groaning as he tried to stand. He froze when he registered whispers at close proximity. Someone was holding his elbow, trying to help him up. Mihael snatched his arm away and looked around. Dozens of faces stared back at him. They were kids of varying ages. Mihael bared his teeth and hissed at them and they shrunk back, the whispers becoming louder and louder.

"M," a deep voice said.

Mihael whirled around. An old man was towering above him, his smile kind but his eyes tired. He had thick, sloping grey eyebrows that made him look incredibly sad, and graying hair that was receding at the temple flopped around on his shiny head with no particular direction. Everything else about him seemed orderly. His shirt pressed, his tie just-so.

"My name is Roger," the old man said. "Please come with me." To the other children, he said: "Back to your studies. Off with you."

As the other children began to scurry off to wherever they were headed before Mihael's bodily crash into the hall, Roger turned and began to walk. Mihael frowned at Roger's receding back, caught between the desperate need to escape and curiosity at the man's strange British accent. If he was British, he was likely not an FBI agent…and probably wasn't an American doctor either. The children were holding school books and seemed aware, so this place was definitely not like that horrible loony bin they had sent him to before. Abruptly, his urge to flee this place dissolved into the desire to know exactly where he was. Before the man calling himself Roger turned the corner at the end of the hall, Mihael began to follow. His bare feet fell quick and silent against the marble floor as he hurried to catch up.

Roger led him through a labyrinth of halls lined with dorms, classrooms and large stained glass windows; and after many minutes, they stopped in front of a pair of mighty oak doors lined with ornate engravings. It was there that Roger finally turned to face him.

"This is Wammy's Orphanage," Roger said plainly. "And this is the front entrance. You may leave or stay. I will tell you now that no one will follow you or force you to return—but also know that our protection of you will end the moment you leave the gate at the end of the estate."

Mihael scowled but did not answer, eyeing the large wrought iron handles and trying to calculate whether or not he was strong enough to pull the heavy door open on his own.

"However," Roger continued. "Should you decide to stay, know that we will feed you, clothe you, and—most importantly—educate you. Every child here is exceptionally brilliant and we believe that you qualify for Wammy's specifications."

"Why?"

Roger paused at the sound of the child's voice. Considering the vehemence of his scowl, the little boy's question was soft, barely moving the air around it. Roger took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. If there was one thing he's learned after all these years, it was that he had no special gift for small children. Even prodigies had moments of heartbreaking vulnerability and it always made him feel awkward in his own skin to attempt to dissemble a child's plea for information.

"Well," Roger said finally. "Well, because you interest L."

_Who is L?_ was Mihael's first thought. "Why?" was what he said.

Roger bent him under his stern gaze, already knowing where this was headed. The "why" game. "I don't know," Roger lied. "But perhaps the answer lies in how well you will perform the syllabus he's drawn up for you." Roger pulled out a sheet of paper from an inner fold of his coat and handed it to the boy.

Mihael took it and noticed immediately that the top read "Mello. Codename 'M'."

"Incidentally, it seems to mirror much of L's own regimen when he was your age," Roger said, watching the boy ignore its contents and stuff the paper into his pants pocket.

"I want the _familia _released," the boy said suddenly, the solidity of his words belying the softness of his whisper-like voice.

"I'm afraid that's not going to happen. And you're in no position to be bargaining."

"You want my mind," Mihael said.

Roger paused. Then: "Rather, we want you to want your mind." Roger sighed after the boy rolled his eyes and began heading for the door. "You like chocolate, yes?"

The boy paused, glancing thoughtfully out of the corner of his eye, his yellow hair falling savagely in his piercing beryl gaze.

"A never ending supply, free of charge, should you stay," Roger said. "You have my word."

The boy looked back at the door and hesitated. After many moments, Mihael finally shook his head. "Not enough," he whispered, clutching at the rosary around his neck. Then Mihael grabbed the door handle and flung it open with all his might.

~*~

_They told me that it would be a good way to record and organize my thoughts for later reflection. They even went on to say that I would be expected to share passages from my journal with my other classmates, so they would have the opportunity to get to know me. Indeed, I was forced to sit and listen as other children read from their journals for nearly an hour. Frankly, the whole idea of it appalled me. _

_First of all, my thoughts don't need organizing. They already come that way. _

_Secondly, I'm not really that fucking complicated. I'm five, ambitious and smart. You could throw a dart anywhere between the words "arrogant" and "unhinged" and hit the one that best describes me._[1]

_My past is a jumbled mix of half-memories, learning how to shape words by reading street signs and listening as passersby pronounce them, and following Rod around on drug and weapons trafficking deals, entertaining loose notions of becoming the leader of La eMe. _

_And I love chocolate. _

_No, I won't bore you with the description of how it tastes, or how it melts in your mouth, or how the foil wrap crinkles in your fingers. The reason I love chocolate is as simple as the reason I am writing this journal is complicated. _

_Once, I sat next to a fat woman at a bus stop. She was delicately breaking off a little, pre-designed square from a bar of Hershey's chocolate and relishing the tiny block as it dissolved in her fleshy mouth. Then, she would slowly break off another square and repeat the process. _

_Eventually, she noticed me staring. She smiled kindly, reached into her bag, and produced a second bar—which she handed to me. I ripped off the wrapper and bit into it savagely. _

_To this day, I can still hear her horrified gasp. What did I do to elicit her appalled reaction? _

_I ignored the pre-designed squares and the delicate process. I rebelled against the normal, destroyed the boring, idiotic procedure of reasonably consuming a Hershey's chocolate bar. _

_A synonym of normal is compos mentis. Compos mentis actually means, by definition, mentally sound. And my first taste of chocolate coincides with the first time I fell in love with the notion of being abnormal. _

_I always knew I was different. Ever since I realized that other children were sucking on their thumbs while I was wrapping my head around Gödel's second incompleteness theorem versus Peano's axioms. _

_But that gasp! The notion that one simple action could make someone feel such animosity towards a child! Oh, it was perfect. _

_I love chocolate like the way I love making others miserable. I love making others miserable because they are stupid fucking sheep. I like to rub their noses in how completely dim-witted and useless they really are. Scurrying around in their little, perfect, pre-designed, square-cut worlds that won't mean shit to anybody once they're dead and gone. No one will remember them; they think they matter but they don't. _

_No normal person ever did anything important or noticeable or memorable. _

~*~

The white was blinding. And Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it was cold.

It went right through him like a heavy blow and he stumbled back. It never snowed in California. Sure, it got cold from time to time, but never like this.

But Miheal's pride was more stubborn than the cold was bitter, and he threw himself out into it.

One foot in front of the other, he chanted in his mind as the snow soaked his thin clothes and the gusts tore the sodden, frozen fabric around his body. Soon, the piercing pain in his feet faded to a strange, weighty numbness—and if it weren't for the chattering of his teeth and the fierce shaking of his body, he might have made it further.

Distantly, he heard a voice shout through the howling winds as he stumbled. The gravel beneath the snow bit harshly into the flesh of his palms. Abruptly, there was an arm about his waist, pulling him upward. Mihael struggled, but he was shivering and bitterly cold. He was suddenly wrapped in something heavy and warm, and then pushed into the backseat of a car.

The car dipped as someone got in beside him and Mihael struggled with the thing wrapped around him, fighting tooth and nail to get free. Next to him, a male voice swore in a foreign language. Mihael paused in his plight, attempting to locate the language in the files of his memories. It sounded familiar. Asian. Not Korean or Japanese, something less common in the streets of Los Angeles. Mihael felt fingers fumble with the heavy fabric and pull the edge down from over his head.

Mihael blinked into the face of his captor. He was indeed Asian, young also, and handsome. Maybe eighteen, maybe younger. The man gave him the once over before reaching back and procuring another blanket, which he threw over Mihael's still-shivering form.

"Nasty weather," the man said in only slightly accented English. Then he smiled kindly. "I'm F. I was just about to leave on assignment before you jumped out behind my car, silly runner."

Mihael blinked again, the warmth of the blankets and the dryness of the vehicle working to slow his feverish shaking. His teeth were still clenched against chattering, so he did not respond.

"Where were you off to without shoes, runner?" F asked in a gently admonishing tone. "One would think that a child of Wammy's would at least bring a coat."

L. F.

...M. Mihael's mind was working furiously.

F continued to talk, blowing on his reddened hands between words. Outside the haven of the vehicle, the snow churned and the wind howled. "You must be new then. You have a name?"

"M," Mihael forced out through clenched teeth. Suddenly, another wave of shivering attacked his limbs.

F waited for it to pass before speaking again. "They've already given you a name?" The young man's voice was serious now, lines forming around a now-frowning mouth. When Mihael did not answer, F said: "Have they drawn you a syllabus?"

Mihael nodded.

"Give it to me."

Mihael stiffened and F sighed. "If I wanted to hurt you, I'd have left you in the storm. Give it to me."

It took a great deal of wrestling with the blanket before Mihael cold produce the crumpled ball of parchment from his pocket. When he did, he handed it over and F carefully flattened out the worn sheet. As he read, his brows drew closer together, forming a shadow over his gentle brown eyes. "When did you arrive?"

"I don't know."

F glanced up. Then he grinned and returned his eyes to the syllabus. "I mean, when did you wake up?"

"This morning. An hour ago maybe."

The frown returned. "Usually it takes weeks of observation before they assign a syllabus," F informed him in a strange mutter. "They filter out the ones who would be better off in families and assign them a normal education until adoption papers are drawn. The rest remain here and are further sorted into...alternate education that hones their natural skills, whatever those may be. This—" F raised Mihael's wrinkled syllabus—"suggests they believe you to be..." F's voice trailed off as he became lost in thought. At long last, he said: "Exceptional."

Mihael straightened in his seat. "Why?"

F shrugged and handed back the syllabus. "I don't know. Maybe they've already had an opportunity to observe you. They must have. And after B's nonsense—"

"Who is B?"

F opened his mouth to answer, but Mihael interrupted with another question, the child's eyes lighting up in a blaze of green. "Who is L?"

F seemed startled. "L is...L is L. He's..." His voice trailed off again. Finally he ended in a soft voice that strangely held absolutely no animosity: "The best of us. And the worst." F leaned forward suddenly. "L is gaining power and influence rapidly. And his life is not only increasingly in danger, his life is becoming increasingly irreplaceable. Do you understand what this means?"

Mihael thought of The Family, and what they did when a member was lost. "They need a back up."

"Precisely." F glanced askance at him as he leaned back. "You are sharp."

"What does he do?"

"Does? Or can?" F eyed him perspicaciously.

"Can. What can he do?"

"Soon," F said, "everything." F paused. "And I think the world will be better for it."

The _world_. Once, Mihael thought La eMe was the surest way to gain power and influence. Yes, it was unlikely because he was white and _gringos_ were not only mistrusted, they were _outsiders._ Often enemies. The face of corporate oppression and political propaganda against their people. The banner for rival gangs who would claim the land that was theirs long before the white men came. And a _gringo _would never gain power in the Mexican Mafia. Mihael thought that perhaps one day he could figure out a way...but maybe—

Maybe this was better.

The _world. _

And a never-ending supply of chocolate.

"So," F said cheerily, "where were you off to? I don't think Taiwan will agree with you much, but if you're runnin', I could at least take you someplace to get boots and a coat."

"No," the child said. "Take me back inside."

~*~

_I find myself a willing specimen for bad faith. I am speaking—or writing, as the case may be—of course, of the existentialist philosophy mauvaise foi, wherein one denies one's total freedom, instead choosing to behave as an inert object. I'm hoping that I won't stumble into Nietzsche's concept of ressentiment by way of naiveté. _

_Which brings me back to why I'm writing this journal. _

_Because I am ambitious and abnormal. Because I want to be remembered. _

_And because of L. _

_Or rather, because of my new cancerous desire to impress him, become him, surpass him. My diseased motivation to be the best—something that has always been a driving force in my short life. _

_Before, it was Rod. Before it was La eMe and The Family, the most powerful prison gang in the United States of America. But now, it looks as if Topo was going under, and Tupi Hermandez with him. They will probably be indicted sometime next year. _

_The Family was an impressive aspiration, but I had to concede that L is far more fascinating. _

_He is the most brilliant man in the world, the most successful and powerful detective known to mankind and he was reared right here at Wammy's. _

_They said I could leave and that no one would stop me. But if I stayed, I might have a shot at being L's successor. A more enticing game, I've decided; and the only price is to play by Wammy's rules. _

_One of which is that I have to keep a journal. _

_Again, it's a simple solution: "Because they told me to". _

_But beneath that, there's a desperate part of me that believes I might fail…and that if I do, I'll die as I was born: No one and unwanted. I'll disappear as if I never was. _

_But. _

_If I succeed L, this journal, this one piece of evidence of my own vanity, would ultimately work to my demise. _

_So I've constructed a compromise. I'll record my real journal on my computer, encrypted to keep prying eyes out…but of course you would already know that as you are reading it. The other side of the compromise is the hard copy of my journal, hand-written and comprised mostly of utter bullshit. In the end, it will work for all parties involved. Wammy's will be satisfied, my ego will be satisfied, and if this journal, safely tucked away behind layers of code, is discovered by an enemy…then I was never worth succeeding L in the first place. _

_My name is Mihael Kheel. My alias is Mello. My codename is M. And this is my journal._

~Excerpt from the Journal of M.

~*~

A/N by Gloria B.: Hello readers. Its a pleasure and an honor to have the opportunity to write Mello's arch of Thanks for the Memories, Prelude to Doumi's fantastic fanfictions Good Night Moon and Tear You Apart.

I remember being struck by how normal and happy the child Mello seemed in his photo-- the one in the canon that had his real name written on the back. So for TftM, I was inspired to approach Mello as a blank canvas and work to apply layers of childhood tribulations, adult situations, incredible intelligence and an aptitude for memory, and a big heart with many feelings until it morphed into the Mello we meet in the third arch of the Death Note series. I wanted to explore possibilities of how he became bitter, what the significance is of the rosary he is commonly seen wearing, what motivates him, who is Matt to him, who is Rod Ross, and most importantly, when and how did Mello snap. In Mello's arch, marking his journey from how he came to Wammy's orphanage to the beginning of Good Night Moon, we explore these possibilities in detail.

I'm a huge fan of listening to input and using it as a tool for further updates, so don't be shy. If you ever have any questions, feel free. You can find my contact information in the Author's Panel under "Gloria". Thank you for reading.

[1] Quote is a direct line from House Season Three—which was a source of great inspiration for this chapter.

Duomi's disclaimer on [1]: We don't own House, either, sadly. We just fangirl on him.


	2. Fear of Falling Under

Disclaimer: Death Note is not mine and I make no money from this story.

Comments: No real warnings for this aside from use of real names. This chapter, being Near's, is written by myself.

* * *

**A Fear of Falling Under**

"...Searching for pieces...

...Pieces left behind...

...Discarded moments...

....In the junkyard of my mind."

~"A Fear of Falling Under" by Darren Hayes

_Entry 1.01 Situational Analysis_

_Date 11.27.1995_

***

_Arrived at the Wammy's House three days ago. Was given the weekend to settle in, relax. Transparent code: they wish to observe me. _

_What they decide has no importance to me. Where I was held an equal exposure to those reported to be of unusual intelligence who still cater to their basic human nature. There, it was easier to get away from others._

_~*~_

Nate's earliest memories were of chaos, explosions and fire. When he thought back to a time before the hospital, that was all there was-- all that stood out.

Most of these memories were vague, impressions on his very young mind of terror and confusion mixed in with thunderous noise and distant screams.

One was more detailed.

Curled on the floor with one knee to his chin, the boy clicked puzzle pieces into place with a methodical precision. The pieces had been flipped, leaving only their pale cardboard backing visible.

This was the best way to complete a puzzle. There was no distracting, childish image to contend with.

As the blank canvas was quickly assembled, Nate imagined a new picture forming. Piece by piece, he laid out a memory.

Starting from the top, he remembered the sky-- an incongruously sunny day. Tall buildings surrounded the visible blue. Below the buildings... smoke, rubble, and an almost impossible amount of blood.

He could recall coming out from behind the fruit vendor's stall that had saved his life, and seeing an object before him that his mind had been unable to process. In shock from the initial explosion of the mortar shell into the marketplace, he had stood and stared at the thing for some time.

It wasn't until one of the UN personnel spied him and took him to their waiting plane for rescue that he realized what it had been.

Staring at his own limbs, he had come to a conclusion: an arm. A human arm had landed near his stall.

Most of one, anyway.

In the present, Nate clicked the last piece of puzzle down, surveying the memory with a detached calculation. Sky, buildings, smoke, destruction... arm.

Calmly, he reached out, picked the puzzle up, and shook it apart once more.

~*~

_I have never related well to others. Dr. R was fond of telling me that if I tried I would find that manipulating others is the easiest thing in the world. I did not tell him that it seemed not worth the effort._

_It didn't require speaking. Dr. R had no more liking of others than I, he was merely better at hiding his criticisms and insults behind acceptable masks, telling them as jokes or as sarcasm. I do not like sarcasm. Often, a person's face and eyes will not match their words, and only a subtle shift in sound denotes their words as false. Their faces are sometimes distracting, trying to match emotions to expressions and translating their language as well as what they mean. I learned that it is easier to focus on other things and watch them from my peripheral vision, when body language can be taken more into account than what they choose to show on their faces. Many people do not know to lie with their bodies as well as their eyes. _

_Dr. R has never had that problem in the time that I have known him. Watching him in any way does me no good, as his voice and body reflect only what he desires them to. I admire this ability, but have no wish to copy it. Instead, it is easier to merely be myself. Possessing no attachment to things, I do not feel a need to pretend to owning what isn't there. _

_I make others nervous. The nurses at the hospital, who cared for me when I was still injured from the Massacre, became unnerved by my mind within months. When I began to understand them, when I began to read, they were frightened. _

_For all that the children at this place are meant to be like me, I feel their eyes follow me through hallways, and I hear the same whispers. _

~*~

Dr. Rivers was a Caucasian man of middle years, with glasses and a neatly trimmed brown beard. His hair was going to gray at the temples but his eyes were a sharp and laughing blue.

He greeted Kimiko with a smile that seemed too amused for the circumstances, though she hadn't yet had time to determine the source of his good humor. It was possible, she supposed, that the man was simply always like this, though his file had mentioned nothing of the sort.

"Dr. Kujo, isn't it? It's a pleasure to meet you. I often see your articles. Your work with infectious diseases and virii is groundbreaking, they say, and especially with someone so young. Though I confess, I'm still not sure what's brought you here..."

"You're being very polite, Dr. Rivers," Kimiko demurred, smiling with charming modesty and smoothing her business skirt over her thigh as she took one of the office's chairs with legs crossed primly at her ankles. Barely twenty years old, she was already developing a striking reputation at the Asia Infectious Disease Center. "You've 'seen' the articles-- so you don't read them yourself?"

"I find myself only with time to read those journals which directly pertain to my own area of expertise, anymore... Much of my free time in these past years has gone straight into Nate." Dr. River's smile widened slightly as he took his own seat, settling with authority into its leather embrace. "Would you like any tea?"

"What kind?" Kimiko gave a sidelong glance to the office's only other resident. A boy of perhaps four years old sat in the corner some feet from where the doctors visited, putting together a puzzle with upside-down pieces. The child took no notice of the adults, toying idly with his abnormally white hair as he assembled the puzzle.

"The only real tea, of course," Dr. Rivers asserted, pouring himself a cup and adding cream to suit himself. He took in the scent with a sigh of satisfaction, appearing totally at ease. Kimiko studied him, distracted from the child. She had come to the decision that whatever was amusing him so was something to do with her.

Not being one who took kindly to a joke at her expense, Kimiko offered Dr. Rivers another smile and kept her voice pleasant. "I must disagree with you. I've never been fond of English tea."

"No? A shame, then." Setting his tea down, Dr. Rivers straightened, his stare becoming frank and direct. "Well, let's get this over with. I lack the patience or the time for dissembling. You're here to study the boy, correct? After the article on him..."

The doctor's abrupt change of subject was more what she'd expected from her review of his files. The man was, to all accounts, excellent in his field, but when he tired of games he would switch instantly from charming to tactless. Kimiko chose to respond to his words rather than his manner. "It was a very provocative article. You must have known your claims regarding his abilities were going to be questioned."

Dr. Rivers brushed these concerns away with a wave of his hand. "I have no doubts that Nate will pass any tests you could give him with little effort. He's a fascinating specimen... I've never seen a mind that operates at his level, and for his age, it's nothing short of... frightening." Dr. Rivers lifted his glass for another sip. If his good humor was intended to relax Kimiko it failed sadly, leaving his eyes hard and watchful. "Though I admit, I had expected journalists or a team of scientists, not a fellow professional."

"I'm sure I'm only ahead of the crowd. I have certain contacts that wished me to be the first to interview him. I assume I _can_ interview him, correct...?" Kimiko queried, a faint frown gathering between her delicate brows. "The article mentioned nothing about him being deaf, or unable to speak. But he's been sitting in that corner for some time."

A smirk threatened to overtake the older man's mouth as he turned to his surrogate son. From the flash of satisfaction in his eyes Kimiko knew that she was about to find out what the doctor had found so very amusing since her arrival. "Nate? Have you had enough time to make up your mind?"

The albino boy lifted his puzzle above his head, pieces falling around him like bits of cardboard snow. Rolling his pale gaze to a point somewhere above Kimiko's head, he spoke in a detached voice. "I'll talk to her."

That decided, he set the empty puzzle down and began again.

Kimiko felt the frown gather force and settle more firmly on her lips. "Do you mean to say that he didn't introduce us, not because you can't speak, but because you were attempting to discern if I was worth your time...?" she asked the child.

Unaffected, Nate gave a small nod.

Kimiko's sin had always been pride. Having a four year old set up such a plot against her wasn't a thing she could readily swallow. Smoothing her expression, she fought her emotions down and managed a stiff smile for the child. "Dr. Rivers, would you mind leaving us alone for a short time? I wish to test the boy, and there are things we need to discuss."

~*~

_Entry 2.01 Environmental Analysis_

_Date 12.08.1995_

_Being surrounded by children is a strange experience._

_As far as my memory extends, my only real associations have been adults. The children's ward at the hospital was a place I never went when given any choice, and once he realized this Dr. R allowed my avoidance of it. _

_Children appear to be like adults, only with their reason and emotional stability removed, in the way that the females on staff at the hospital were much like the males._ _They are unable to understand me, and so they fear me, though they show this in different ways. Often I am avoided, though several times I have been pushed down in the hallways. I don't believe it's coincidence. Those that don't fear me have already begun trying to change me or simply to ignore me. I prefer the latter._

~*~

It didn't take Kimiko long to recognize in Nate not only a brilliant young mind, but the best candidate for Wammy's House she had seen since L had disappeared into the walls years before.

Having toed off her low heels, Kimiko knelt formally beside the child now, hands in her lap as she meditatively watched the boy click the puzzle pieces into place yet again. She knew now that she would be taking Nate away with her, but dealing with children had never been a particular strong suit for her.

Kimiko pushed an imaginary loose strand of hair back into place in her neatly secured hair and shifted minutely in preparation to speak again, readying a warm smile and an impassioned speech.

"You want to take me away." The boy spoke flatly into the silence between them, and Kimiko paused an instant too long, surprised at the interruption and wondering what had given her away. "...Where will I be going?" Nate lifted a bit of cardboard and watched it rather than Kimiko, apparently seeing something there that the young woman could not. "I fail to see how I would be of interest for your articles on viral engineering. Unless you plan to use me as a test subject," he added flippantly. "Am I going to meet your 'contacts'?"

Regaining her composure quickly, Kimiko nodded, watching Nate with approval. _He's quick, and suspicious. That will serve him well at Wammy's_. "The choice is yours, of course, but I would like to take you with me. My interest in you is due to a private institution I know of, where children like yourself are raised in an environment that's more suited to their needs than any normal school could provide. You'll be housed and supported in return for taking classes with other children in... similar circumstances."

Nate's small hand dropped the puzzle piece carelessly, and his strange eyes with their large, dark pupils barely ringed in palest blue turned to her for the first time. "The school specializes in war orphans with oculocutaneous albinism," he hazarded, tone flat.

Kimiko frowned slightly. "You know what I meant, Nate. Children of exceptional intelligence who, for one reason or another, have no caretakers."

"..." Turning his eyes to the corner of the ceiling, the boy twined his delicate fingers into his unnaturally pale hair. "...Is it a worthwhile place?" he inquired abruptly. "You seem defensive of it, and your voice suggested affection toward it. Assuming you went there yourself, was it worth it?"

Leaning toward Nate meaningfully, Kimiko allowed some of her intensity and her faith in the Wammy's House into her voice. "It is the only real place for people like us. Humans are so rarely worth our attention. Even in my profession, I often feel that I only waste time trying to help the blind see. The people you meet in... that place can be like anyone else, but a few there will be worth it. You will learn things there that no one else would be able to teach you, and your potential will be realized. I believe that it would be a waste to the world if you were to not go."

Fingers slowing in his hair, the albino child breathed in silence for a moment. Abruptly, he drew himself to his feet, barely as tall as Kimiko where she remained kneeling at his side. He tilted his head. "We should leave soon. Given time others will show up to interview me. I don't feel like speaking to them."

With a rush of satisfaction, Kimiko gave Nate a benevolent smile and stood herself, smoothing her skirt-suit from habit and holding out a small, manicured hand to the boy. "I only need to make a call and we can leave. When you've finished your good-byes, of course, and collected your things," she added conscientiously, not wanting to rush Nate too overtly.

Studying her hand minutely, Nate gave a small frown. Leaving her, he moved briefly to the wall, picking up a robot toy and tucking it against his side before returning to Kimiko. He casually slipped his tiny fingers into hers as he stared with apparent disinterest at the ceiling. "I'm ready now."

~*~

_The more I learn of those around me, the less reason I see to learn how to act in an acceptable manner. If people are unable to accept the way that I am, they are not intelligent enough to be spoken to. It would waste effort and time to appear to care about them. _

_The Wammy's House is no different in this way, either. Most so-called prodigies, while brilliant when compared to those in the world outside, have a sameness when compared to each other. _

_From my explorations of the hallways and grounds, as well as observations made from my classes so far, I have begun to suspect that the sameness of these students has some consistent pattern, and that further study will yield the unknown factors. _

_There are exceptions to the rule of sameness._

_Of note: one boy, called Mello. Violent, hyper-active, and confrontational, with obvious insecurities. He's unique, here; he alienates the others as I do, but is impossible to ignore. Has a charm that attracts attention but repels familiarity. I have not talked to him. _

_Also of note: an older boy, called Beyond. Loves jam, is unhygienic and possibly schizophrenic. He is also the only person here I was warned about by name._

_From his actions, Beyond is controlled by thoughts that seem barely human._

_I relate to that._

~*~

Sitting on the private jet en route to Winchester and the Wammy's House Orphanage, Kimiko found herself unable to look away from the small child across from her.

With his white pajamas draping on his thin limbs and the dark smudges beneath his large eyes, it was easy enough to imagine Nate as he'd been described in Dr. River's article-- a malnourished toddler, taken to a UN hospital after the first Markale Massacre during the ongoing Siege of Sarajevo. Beneath the loose sleeves of his shirt, the young boy was reportedly still possessed of slowly fading scars from bits of wood and rock which had turned into airborne projectiles during the Massacre. He was one of the lucky ones-- while something near 144 people were injured, 68 had died outright. It was possible that Nate's parents were among those dead, as no one among the survivors had come forward to report a missing albino child.

His exact age was unknown, but the medical staff had estimated it to be somewhere near the end of 1991, and Dr. Rivers had taken it upon himself to assign the boy a birth date when he gave him a name.

Given the circumstances, Kimiko had expected a frightened child, and had been unprepared for the almost disturbing calm of the boy. Holding onto his toy, he kept his own eyes on the nearest window, and Kimiko had the impression that he was making mathematical calculations of their speed based on the clouds passing beneath them rather than entertaining any curiosity about their destination.

His farewell with the doctor who had taken him in had also been almost perfunctory, with Dr. Rivers ruffling his hair and giving a dry laugh at Nate's idea of packing. Dr. Rivers had told Nate to write to him occasionally and to credit him when he became famous, and had allowed the two to leave with only a detached and analytical look at Kimiko.

The doctor had made calls about her presence while she spoke with Nate, and whoever had answered had allowed him enough information to satisfy him for now on where his charge was being spirited away to. She had expected more of a fight from him at the least, but he'd informed her that he had always known Nate would be taken to a place better suited to him someday and that he couldn't be burdened with the care of a prodigy for the rest of his own career.

Even at those words, Nate had remained unaffected, staring down at his toy and waiting patiently for Kimiko to show him where to go.

Suddenly uncomfortable in the silence, Kimiko sought out some reassurance for the boy in case he was simply very good at hiding his anxieties. "You'll be at home there, Nate. The Wammy's House is just what the name suggests. Those who graduate with you often feel like family. I'll try to check in on your progress as well."

The plane flew on with only the hum of the engine and the hush of the recycled air between them.

Kimiko began to wonder if her theory of Nate actually possessing emotions might not be terribly misinformed. Still, she affected concern. "Nate...?"

"You didn't ask a question. Did you want some sort of response?" the boy asked without real inflection, drawing one leg up onto the seat and resting his chin on his knee to stare blankly outside without straining his neck. "I assumed you were making a point."

Once again, Kimiko felt a frown gathering between her brows. "You're going from the only stable environment you've had since you were found. It has to have had some impact on you."

Nate gave a small shrug, dropping his toy to twist his white hair into loops. His expression remained nonexistent.

Sighing, Kimiko turned her own gaze out the window, lips drawn tightly together. Deciding a certain amount of blunt honesty was called for, she returned her focus to the boy. "You have to understand, Nate... your mind is amazing, but that won't excuse everything. It isn't healthy to alienate yourself so far from others. At Wammy's House you'll be among others that are as intelligent as you are. It's fine to be independent and self-contained, but if you want others to relate to you you'll occasionally need to act... with emotion."

Near abruptly went from distant and almost bored to completely unreachable, leg curling closer to himself and face going closed off and cold. Kimiko realized too late that the detached manner of the boy had been his strange form of acceptance, and that her criticism had destroyed what respect she had apparently earned so far.

Suspecting that any further attempts to talk with the child would be ignored, Kimiko leaned back into her seat in defeat and returned to gazing out the window. As clouds drifted by below them, K reflected on the fact that she had never been particularly fond of children.

~*~

_Entry 3.01 Journal Analysis_

_Date 12.09.1995_

_When I arrived at this institution two weeks ago, I was given an assignment to describe myself. I responded with a description from the superficial to the skeletal, including current measurements in height, weight, length of hair, muscle groups and all individual bones._

_I ended with an advisement to the teacher: "Your command needs more concise parameters."_

_The teacher insisted on lecturing me. I completed the large-size Wammy's House white puzzle fifteen times while he spoke. _

_I did not intend my response to be rude, though I also do not care that he found it to be so. According to empirical evidence, there is no other way to describe myself than by my physical features. _

_In spite of this incident, I was given another assignment. I am to keep a journal, passages of which may be read to the class. It's meant to record and organize my thoughts, and also, of course, to keep track of the stability of the geniuses who reside here. The longer I stay, the more convinced I become that the Wammy's House is not as benign as it appears to be. _

_I do not doubt that even false passages for the class will be scrutinized for meaning. If that is the case, I have made it easier on any analysts. My public journal consists only of statements of observational fact: the number of cracks in the ceiling of the hallway from each class to my room, the temperature and weather forecast of every day, dust motes visible in the sunlight through the window. If anyone cares to verify these notes, they will, for the most part, have little trouble._

_Their assignment did have a side-effect. When considering the journal, I came to the conclusion that evidence of my existence is circumstantial. Before Dr. R, there are no records that I was born or that I lived. _

_Now, at least in my computer, there will be one more piece of evidence._

_My name is unknown. I have been called Nate Rivers by the doctor, and at the Wammy's House I am called Near. An older man gave me this name-- Quillsh Wammy, the founder of this school. When I asked him for his reasoning, he told me that I remind him of someone-- that I am nearly a replica. _

_Almost a copy._

_I am not sure if I will remain in this place, but I have nowhere else to go that would be better. This place is a mystery, and in itself that may compel me to stay. Is there really another like me? I have heard the older students speak of an idol of the school, called L. B himself reportedly changed his own appearance to what it is now in an attempt to look identical to this L. And yet he was named Beyond, rather than Near-- or even Beside, given the possible relation of our new names to our old in this school. Nate, Near, N. I can not imagine B in any other setting... If he is what L is like, will I eventually follow in his footsteps? I recognize my emotions as things apart from my myself and difficult to comprehend. Will they eventually be so alien to me that I become a creature like him?_

_I will keep this journal, not only to leave a mark of my passing, but to keep track of my own thoughts. If my mind begins to change, I will work to recognize it from my own writings. In the end, the assignment is complete. Someone will analyze my journal and watch it for clues. But it will only be me._

~ Excerpts from the journal of N.

* * *

**A/N:**

Took me a while to write this! I know in L: CtW Near is from Thailand, but I don't think that movie honestly has anything to do with the canon, so. Besides, I thought it would be a lot of fun playing with Near's origin story considering his albinism. I don't recall why I ended up choosing the Siege of Sarajevo as his base, but I really enjoyed the study. Also, as to the origin of Near's name used here: I looked at the definition of Near on Merriam-Webster online, and in one place the definition means "approximating the genuine". Isn't that terrible, yet fitting? I can imagine Watari seeing Near in his socially awkward, distant, analytical self and being stricken by the obvious resemblance to L, but like a paler copy. And having him decide that Near is just that-- a little replica, maybe the one who can finally take on the mantle of heir to the title of L. Almost, but not quite, the original. Huge happy thanks to Gloria, as always, for getting me to work on this and for being generally amazing!

Sexykill69: Thanks for being the sole commentor thus far! You're number one. Ongoing thanks, if I forgot to gush enough before, for linking that nifty post DN oneshot manga in your user profile! It still fills me with joy.


End file.
